Classic Poem

They're at their age-long harvest still—the angel Death and Time—
But ebb or flow, we all must go, and leave the broken rhyme.
Wide blue with whitecaps here and there—the glory of the day—
A space of seascapes wondrous fair, in Islands far away;
Faint silver on the distant reef, on skylines scarce a fleck,
But fleecy clouds of blest-relief that welcome Louis Becke.

Who'll miss the well-loved stuttering speech? Who'll mind the distant date
When by the mast and palm-fringed beach those halting words had weight?
Who'd dream those sad, kind, manly eyes, when traders were “in holts”,
In summer Isles of Paradise could glint behind a Colt's?
We only know “By Reef and Palm”—the world he made his own—
(The later wounds, without a balm, are better never known.)

We live and fight by day and night in carking care and strife,
And take our pen in death to write the story of our life.
Farewell, my friend—'twill ne'er be told—or told in printed line.
(Your destiny in days of old was strongly linked with mine.)
I trust my track shall run as true, though come it late or soon,
When my name shall be missing, too, from “Some Birthdays in June”.